


'Till the End of the Line

by Lauralot



Series: Alexander Pierce should have died slower [6]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bed-Wetting, Gen, Healing, Hurt/Comfort, Nightmares, Non-Sexual Age Play, Past Abuse, Past Brainwashing, Past Torture, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Self-Esteem Issues, Self-Hatred
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-23
Updated: 2014-10-23
Packaged: 2018-02-22 08:09:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,069
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2500715
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lauralot/pseuds/Lauralot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's hard to take a friendship right back up when so much has changed over seventy years.</p><p>Particularly when HYDRA's conditioning resurfaces.</p>
            </blockquote>





	'Till the End of the Line

**Author's Note:**

> This installment was inspired by the comments on the previous story, _[I Just Wanted to Be Sure of You.](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2142423)_ Specifically, the comments from [ashcat](http://archiveofourown.org/comments/14304609), [abbeyjewel](http://archiveofourown.org/comments/16455764), and [Water_child](http://archiveofourown.org/comments/15710153) especially.

**“Thank you, Buck, but I can get by on my own.”**

**“The thing is, you don’t have to. I’m with you ‘till the end of the line, pal.”**

—Steve Rogers and Bucky Barnes, _Captain America: The Winter Soldier_

  


Strictly speaking, Bucky’s not allowed to be on Steve’s bed. 

“Remember that time,” he asks, reclining against the pillows, “I think it was, uh, we must’ve been about fourteen, when we played hooky to go see the Dodgers?” 

Steve lifts his head from Bucky’s shoulder to glance at him. “You remember that?” He asks it whenever Bucky shares a recollection: _You remember that?_ It might be annoying if Steve didn’t sound so overjoyed every time, if Steve’s head weren’t back on Bucky’s shoulder like they’re kids again, like nothing’s changed. “Yeah, they were playing the Giants.” 

Beds are for sleeping, according to Bucky’s therapists. He has trouble getting enough rest, both because of nightmares and because he didn’t sleep without drugs to aid in the process for seventy years. They say his sleeping patterns impact his health and they’ve given him rules to try and train his body back into what ought to be natural. Beds are only for sleeping; he isn’t meant to sit or lie on one unless he’s trying to rest. So he shouldn’t be here. 

But this morning he’d put his fist through the wall because he hadn’t liked Stark’s latest nickname. This afternoon he’d remembered a mission that had required him to derail an entire train full of innocents to eliminate one target, and he’d stolen yet another knife for the ever-growing arsenal he’s somehow hidden from JARVIS in his bedroom. He’d been shaking and sick for hours until Steve brought up baseball that evening, and now here they are and he can finally breathe. And Steve’s resting on his shoulder, leaning on _him_ , like they did in the old days. Like nothing’s changed. He doesn’t give a damn what his therapists want from him, not now. 

“Did they win?” Bucky asks. He can’t remember that part. “The Dodgers?” 

Steve chuckles against his shirt. “They did, Buck. But we didn’t see it. Your uncle ran into us there and he dragged us to your house. I’d never seen your mom that mad, not even when you’d get in fights.” 

And as Steve says it, Bucky can see it, feeling a smile form on his face. “He wasn’t really my uncle, you know, we just called him that. I think he was a cousin? Or just a family friend. My only uncle lived in Indiana.” In Shelbyville, where his father, his real father, was from. “We went there one year for Christmas. Took a train.” 

“Yeah?” says Steve, though he’s probably heard this story before, back in the thirties. “Tell me about it.” 

So he does. He talks about Shelbyville and Christmas presents, about English class and the girls he dated, about sneaking into movies and playing baseball in the street. He doesn’t touch any of the memories about the military, nothing about HYDRA. Those are still raw wounds and he won’t poke at them. But he can do this, he can be the connection. The tie Steve has to all that he lost when his plane went down. He can be himself, lying there on Steve’s bed, can forget all he’s been conditioned to become. He can _breathe_ as he talks, as his head starts to nod, Steve’s fingers combing through his hair while he drifts off to sleep. 

*

He wakes because there’s a hand on his shoulder, shaking, a gentle voice in his ear. “Bucky…”

Bucky tenses, shifting away on the mattress. In his dream he’s being pushed down into the chair, and when the hand nudges him again he struggles. That’s when he feels it. 

The sheets are wet. 

Eyes open now, Bucky goes rigid. Beside him, Steve switches from shaking his shoulder to stroking his hair. It’s probably meant to be comforting. It isn’t, the touch barely registering through the waves of shame and fear bubbling through him. Of course this was going to happen. Even in a good week, he wakes up drenched three or four nights. 

It’s one thing in his own bed. He’s grown almost accustomed to it, pathetic as that is. There’s always the rush of horror before he remembers no one’s around to torture him for it, always the flood of disgust, but it’s easy enough to strip the sheets and replace them with the second set he keeps waiting on the nightstand. Easy enough to cry in the shower for a few minutes before telling himself that out of everything currently fucked up in his life, this really isn’t a big deal. 

It feels like a big deal now, lying frozen in Steve’s bed. It feels like the biggest deal in the world. Their surroundings are very dark—Steve’s room doesn’t have a nightlight like Bucky’s does—but his face is so burning hot he’s sure he must be visibly glowing. Steve must be lying in it as well, must be realizing what a fucking miserable wreck his friend is, and though no one in the tower has ever raised a hand to Bucky, he can’t help but brace himself for a blow. “It was an accident.” The voice is faint and shaking and it isn’t his, not anymore, because he can’t _be_ here, not for this. How could he bear it? “I’m sorry, Daddy, I—I didn’t—”

“It’s okay, Bucky.” Daddy’s still petting his hair. “I know, I’m not mad. You couldn’t help it.” 

Bucky just whimpers. He wants to lean back into the touch, wants to be held and comforted, but he’s wet and itching and he really doesn’t want to get any more of that on Daddy than there already must be. He can’t move. 

Daddy does move, sitting up and pulling back the sheets. “Here,” he says, and his hands are sliding under Bucky’s shoulders and knees, lifting him. “Let’s get you a bath. I’ll change the sheets while you’re in there.” 

“But.” Bucky wants to disappear, to hide somewhere and never come back out. All he ever does is mess things up. “You’re still—”

“Don’t worry about me, Bucky.” Daddy nudges the bathroom door open with his shoulder, stepping inside. “Just let me take care of you. Need me to get the water started?” 

“Uh-uh.” He’s being shifted in Daddy’s arms until he’s standing up and the bathroom tiles are cold under his feet. He stares down at the floor, trying not to see his wet clothes or Daddy’s, trying not to feel. When he was the asset, he was never embarrassed or scared or weak. Now he’s all of those things all of the time. 

“Okay.” Daddy’s hand ruffles through his hair. “Leave your clothes by the door and I’ll take care of them, all right? Everything’s fine, Bucky, I promise.” 

Bucky takes a shower; baths remind him too much of his last daddy and he really doesn’t want to think about his last daddy right now. He stands there for a long time, water running over him. His doctors says it’s okay to be upset, even okay to feel sorry for himself, as long as he doesn’t let that sadness take over his life. Bucky thinks feeling sorry for himself is probably warranted for now and stays in the shower until the bathroom’s so full of steam it’s hard to breathe. 

His clothes are gone when he gets out of the shower, replaced by a pair of his pajamas. They are red and gold, designed to look like Iron Man’s armor. They were a gift from Tony. 

There are new sheets on the bed and the mattress was probably cleaned and flipped while Bucky was in the bathroom. Bucky Bear is sitting on the pillows now, so Daddy must have gone to Bucky’s room to get him. And probably used Bucky’s shower while he was there, because Daddy’s in new clothes and his hair is damp. Bucky barely has time to notice any of this because almost as soon as he’s back in the bedroom, Daddy’s picking him up to carry him to the bed. 

Daddy really likes carrying him. Bucky thinks it’s because one time he mentioned that his last daddy hadn’t been able to pick him up since the eighties and even then it was only for short distances. “Are you sleepy?” 

“Uh-uh.” He still has to lie down, though: his doctors set aside certain hours for sleeping and said that if he couldn’t sleep, he needed to just keep still in bed and rest. He’s being deposited on the bed and he sniffs just once. It’s very quiet. He never cries around Daddy; he knows he won’t be in trouble if he does, but knowing and believing aren’t always the same. 

Daddy hears him and frowns a little, taking Bucky Bear from the pillow and handing the stuffed animal to him. “It’s really okay, Bucky. We can figure it out later.” 

That means that later, when he’s himself again, there’s going to be A Talk about this problem. Later, when he’s himself, he’s not going to enjoy it. Not that he’s enjoying himself much now, huddled up on the bed and clinging Bucky Bear to his chest. “It’s not that.” 

“What is it?” Daddy asks, running his fingers through Bucky’s hair again. 

“I used to take care of you,” he mumbles, not meeting Daddy’s eyes. He doesn’t remember all of it, but a long, long time ago that had basically been Bucky’s job. And now…even when Steve was little and sick a lot, he’d never been as helpless and needy as Bucky is. 

“You did.” Daddy’s hand moves from his hair to his face, tilting Bucky’s head up until they’re looking at each other. “And that means it’s my turn to take care of you, don’t you think?” 

Bucky sighs, closing his eyes. “You used to need me.” But that isn’t right either. Daddy needed the person Bucky was, the person he thought he was getting back before they realized what a broken burden Bucky is today. 

There’s a moment of quiet and Bucky is just starting to fidget—he can’t help but worry that all the nice things up to now have been pretend and he’s broken the illusion—when Daddy kisses him on the forehead. “I’ll always need you, Buck,” he says, laying one hand over Bucky’s and holding tight. “You’re my best friend and nothing’s ever gonna change that. We’ll figure everything out, I promise.” 

Daddy looks honest when he says it. He also looks exhausted and worried and the way people look when they’re cut open and everything that was inside spills out. His hand clenches, sandwiched between Bucky’s hand and the fur of the bear, and the light in his eyes is one Bucky almost remembers from the war, glowing there before the grimmest missions.”Understand?” he asks. 

Bucky nods and Daddy sinks back onto the bed beside him. 

“Wanna watch a movie before breakfast?” 

“Uh-huh.” He shifts on the mattress so he’s huddled up against Daddy’s warmth, head under his daddy’s chin. 

“Sleeping Beauty?” Daddy asks. His free hand searches the nightstand for the remote.

“Little Mermaid.” It used to be that he always asked for _Sleeping Beauty_ , but Tasha had gotten bored with seeing it and said Bucky at least had to give the other princesses a try. And he did, and Ariel’s just as good as Aurora. Maybe even better. 

“Little Mermaid?” Daddy repeats, turning the TV on. 

“I like her fin,” Bucky says. “And when she gets the prince out of the water.” 

Daddy pets his hair as they watch. His hand goes still but shaky when the witch takes Ariel’s voice, and Bucky’s not sure why. It’s not like Daddy’s scared of anything. 

*

They don’t go into the main kitchen for breakfast, just the little one on Daddy’s floor of the tower. Bucky’s sort of disappointed because that means he doesn’t get to push any buttons in the elevator, but he gets a piggyback ride to the table and that’s just as good. Besides, he thinks today might be the sort of day that’s just him and Daddy and nobody else, and he likes those. It isn’t that the other people in the tower aren’t _nice_ , it’s just that sometimes there’s too many of them. 

Daddy gets Bucky a glass of water and all of his pills before making any food. Bucky’s taking a lot of different medicines: antidepressants and mood stabilizers and some special pill that they say makes scary, bad memories hurt less. Plus he has to take a vitamin that he’s supposed to get from sunlight but doesn’t because he never goes outside. 

Sometimes Bucky helps cook but today Daddy’s slicing apples and Bucky’s not allowed to touch knives ever, especially not around his daddy. The doctors worry that maybe the orders HYDRA gave Bucky are still hiding inside him waiting to come out, and they think holding weapons might make that happen. So when Bucky cooks it’s only stuff that doesn’t use knives and when other people cook they cut his food—and everyone else’s—up before they serve it so there’s no need for knives at the table. 

Bucky opens one of the cabinets and takes out a bottle of honey. Honey is all that Bucky Bear eats, except he doesn’t actually drink it. It’s too sticky that way. He just eats by holding the bottle, which Tony said is called osmosis. He never seems to take very much out of the bottle at all, which Tony said is because stuffed bears have very slow metabolisms. 

Bucky has a metabolism four times faster than most people, but he can’t eat four times as much because HYDRA didn’t give him solid foods for a long time. His last daddy did sometimes, but not very much and not very often. 

Most of what Bucky eats now comes from smoothies, like the one Daddy sets in front of him. It’s green and very thick and much, much better than the drinks from HYDRA. 

Daddy’s also putting a plate in front of him. Sometimes Daddy cuts apples to look like swans, but today there are six little bunnies on the plate, wedges of apple with a V cut out of the peel so the color that’s left looks like the head and ears of a rabbit. Bucky likes biting their heads off. There’s also an omelet, draped over the backs of the bunnies like a blanket. 

“Thank you, Daddy,” Bucky says, hugging him. 

“You’re welcome,” Daddy says, ruffling Bucky’s hair. “Let me know if you need anything else.” 

For a while it’s quiet except for the sounds of forks on plates and Bucky Bear osmosing. Daddy has his phone out and Bucky thinks he’s probably reading emails. He gets a lot of emails. Usually they’re about Avengers stuff or government things but sometimes they’re about Bucky. A bunch of reporters were really interested in the Winter Soldier, especially after people took pictures of Daddy and Bucky walking into a toy store and put them online. 

“Do people still wanna talk to me?” Bucky asks. His plate is empty now. 

“Not as much,” Daddy says, “not unless it’s a slow day, I think.” He doesn’t sound happy that they’re asking at all, though. Daddy’s very protective and says a lot that he won’t let anyone exploit Bucky ever again. 

“Oh,” says Bucky, sucking on the straw for the smoothie. 

“You don’t want to talk to any reporters, right?” 

Still drinking, Bucky wrinkles his nose. He’s seen the news sometimes and the reporters always seem either nosy or like they’re looking for a fight. “No.” He takes another drink, thinking. “I’d talk to Ellen.” 

“Ellen?” Daddy slips the phone in his pocket. 

“The lady with the short hair. Dory.” Everybody watched _Finding Nemo_ a few weeks ago for movie night. Tasha had really liked it, but Bucky thought it was way too sad. He thinks Daddy felt the same way. 

“Why Ellen?” 

Bucky shrugs. “She’s really nice to everybody. And I like when she dances.” 

“I’ll let you know if Ellen ever wants to talk to you, then,” Daddy says.

Bucky thinks the answer would still be no, but he doesn’t mind. He doesn’t like the thought of going on TV telling everybody about his life very much. Not as himself and not now. It’s hard enough to do with just the doctors. He carries his plate to the sink, still sucking on the smoothie.

“What do you want to do today?” Daddy asks. 

Bucky considers it, staring out the window. They’re in the middle of Manhattan and all that’s around the tower are other big buildings. It’s fall and the leaves are probably changing, but it doesn’t look like it. “We need Halloween stuff,” he says. 

“Stuff?” 

They have Halloween costumes; they’re not going out trick-or-treating, but they can do it in the tower and have cookies and movies and games too. Bucky’s costume is a wolf suit from a book called _Where the Wild Things Are_. Daddy was going to be a wild thing, but Bucky didn’t like the thought of sailing away from Daddy or sending him to bed without supper, so now Daddy’s going to be the Dread Pirate Roberts. Tony and Pepper are Inigo and Princess Buttercup, and Bruce is going to be Fezzik. Sam is dressing as someone named Lando Calrissian, which he says he does every year. Tasha is Princess Merida and Clint is going to be a bear. 

“Decoration stuff,” Bucky says. 

Daddy thinks about it. “We can make window ghosts,” he says, beckoning for Bucky to sit back down. 

Bucky isn’t sure what a window ghost is, but he figures Daddy will explain and takes a seat, finishing the smoothie. 

Daddy gets up to gather supplies and returns with plastic wrap, markers, tape, and two bottles of glue. He tapes a length of the plastic wrap down tight over the table and hands Bucky a marker. “You draw a ghost and then outline the edge and around the eyes and mouth with glue,” he explains. “When that dries, you fill in the rest of it, and when the whole thing’s dry, you peel it off the plastic and it sticks to glass.” 

Bucky draws two ghosts: one he makes up and one with Bucky Bear’s suggestions. Bucky Bear is still too busy absorbing honey to help; stuffed bears eat about as slowly as they digest. Daddy, he notices, hasn’t drawn a ghost. He’s written “BOO” in big thick letters and is carefully tracing the glue around those. 

“Know why they say boo?” Bucky asks. 

“Why?” 

“It’s Latin,” he says, tracing around one of the ghosts. “Boo. _I cry_.”

Daddy’s looking at him; Bucky can feel his eyes. “Was that a command?” 

When Bucky was HYDRA’s, the really important commands that he couldn’t ever forget came in Latin. That way, there was very little chance of anybody who wasn’t supposed to be in charge of him accidentally giving an order. Bucky shakes his head. No one ever ordered him to cry, just to shut up. And _boo_ doesn’t mean sad cry anyway; it’s more like a roar. 

“My last daddy told me,” Bucky says, because he knows Daddy will ask. “I think on Halloween.” 

There is a long moment of quiet and when Daddy speaks again, his voice sounds is very soft and flat. That’s probably on purpose. “You spent Halloween with Alex?” 

Alex is what Daddy calls Bucky’s last daddy. Bucky thinks that’s because once he said his last daddy hadn’t liked that nickname. “Dunno. Just once. I think it was Halloween? There was candy corn and I got to try it but it didn’t taste very good.” It must have been after a really important mission since he got to try candy. Sweet stuff was more likely to make him sick and he almost never got to have it. 

There’s more quiet before Daddy says, “The kind you get in stores isn’t very good, yeah. It’s much better if you make it.” 

Bucky takes that as a sign that they’re going to make candy corn at some point. Something like that usually happens whenever Bucky brings up his last daddy. The reason Daddy started cutting up food into cool shapes is because Bucky said once that his last daddy used to put things on plates in the shape of a smiley face. 

Sometimes Bucky wonders if Daddy understands that he doesn’t have to try to be the better parent. He already is. 

“Can I have a hug?” Bucky asks. He thinks Daddy likes being able to hug him, being able to comfort him and to hold on and not let go. And Daddy hugs better than anybody else. 

“Of course you can,” Daddy says, drawing him in tight. 

When it seems like Daddy’s about to pull away, maybe five minutes later, Bucky adds, “I need two hugs. One’s for Bucky Bear.” 

“Oh?” 

“He’d hug on his own but he’s eating. He can’t eat and hug at the same time.” 

By the time the second hug is over, Bucky Bear’s done with breakfast. 

*

After they’re done with the hugs and the ghosts, they ride in the elevator to Bucky’s floor of the tower so Bucky can get clothes that aren’t Iron Man pajamas. Daddy says that wearing real clothes automatically makes a day brighter and more productive. 

“People today wear pajamas outside and places,” Bucky says. He’s seen it on TV. 

“People today don’t know any better,” Daddy says. “We do.” 

Bucky gets to press the elevator buttons; he does it with the right hand because the left one doesn’t feel as much of the pushing. Also Daddy started holding his left hand as soon as they stepped inside. Daddy always holds his hand when they’re in small spaces even though an elevator is still much, much bigger than the cryo-tank. 

“What do you want to do now?” Daddy asks when Bucky steps out of the bedroom in jeans and his favorite T-shirt, which has Daddy’s shield on it. The shirt was a gift from Pepper. 

“Color,” Bucky says after a few minutes’ deliberation. 

He has a bunch of coloring books about a bunch of different things. The biggest one is a Disney book with all the princesses, but that’s the one he uses when he and Tasha color together. When he colors with Sam they don’t use the books very much; Sam likes seeing the pictures Bucky comes up with on his own. 

Daddy comes up with his own pictures while Bucky chooses the dinosaur book. They have a set of a hundred and fifty-two crayons, which is even more than Bucky had with his last daddy. Some of them are sparkly. 

“Whatcha drawing?” Bucky asks as he finishes coloring the water around a glittery plesiosaur. 

“A stegosaurus.” Daddy flips the paper around. “Like him?” 

“He doesn’t have feathers,” Bucky says. 

“No, he doesn’t. Why would he?” 

“Bruce says dinosaurs had feathers.” Last week, Tony let Tasha and Bucky watch a really scary movie called _Jurassic Park_ and after, while Pepper was having a stern talk with Tony, Bruce had explained all the ways that the movie couldn’t happen and what it had gotten wrong about dinosaurs. Like that velociraptors were really the size of chickens and covered in feathers. 

“I don’t think they all did,” Daddy says. 

Bucky shrugs and starts coloring a triceratops for Bucky Bear. 

They go back to Daddy’s floor for lunch. Bucky isn’t sure what he wants, so Daddy makes another smoothie and an open face sandwich with cheese and red pepper and little bits of olive all cut and arranged to look like Princess Ariel. 

After lunch they play hide and seek. Bucky Bear can fit into a lot more hiding spots than Bucky can—in the stove, in the medicine cabinet, between the dryer and the wall—but it usually takes Daddy longer to find Bucky because being good at hiding used to be part of Bucky’s job. Still, it’s Bucky Bear who manages to win during their fifth game: Daddy doesn’t find him squished between the mattress and the box frame, so Bucky has to pull him out. 

“We should make a blanket fort,” Bucky says after, while the bear is recovering on the couch. 

“How big do you want it?” Daddy asks. He’s playing with Bucky’s hair and Bucky leans back into the touches like a cat. He thinks he remembers petting cats back in Brooklyn, a long time ago. 

“Uh, all your blankets and all my blankets.” 

“And what are we gonna do with this fort?” Daddy asks. He’s still playing with Bucky’s hair. Hopefully he doesn’t want to braid it. Bucky doesn’t like that very much. 

“Defend it.” 

“Oh? From what?” 

“Stuff.” Bucky shrugs. “Can we?” 

“Of course we can.” Daddy lets his fingers trail off of Bucky’s hair as he stands up. “But I don’t think I can make it the way Tony and Bruce did the other night.” 

That was the same night as _Jurassic Park_. Tasha and Bucky had still been a little worried about Tyrannosaurus rexes despite Bruce’s reassurances, so Clint had suggested blanket forts. They’d used every blanket in the tower. Bucky still isn’t sure how they did it, but Tony and Bruce had managed to make a blanket fort with a second floor that would hold people’s weight, just using blankets and cushions and maybe duct tape. “That’s okay.” 

“Let’s get the blankets here and then go up to your room, all right?” Daddy asks, offering his hand. 

Bucky takes it and picks up Bucky Bear, who looks recovered enough to help. “Uh-huh.” 

Once the blankets are all gathered up in Bucky’s living room, there’s a long and serious talk to plan out the construction. All elements of the design have to be decided by a majority vote, because Bucky Bear is the general of the Royal Tower Defense Army and Bucky Bear says that’s a rule for making forts. Daddy draws up the blueprints. 

The construction is going well except Bucky’s heavy therapy blanket keeps slipping from its proper place. 

“I have tape,” Bucky says, starting toward the bedroom. “I’ll get it.” There’s a roll of duct tape in the drawer of the nightstand. 

There’s also a knife. 

Bucky stares down at it, frozen, his hand still holding onto the drawer. It isn’t the only knife there: he’s gathered more but they’re all hidden under other things. Yesterday, when he got the latest knife, he was too rushed and stressed to properly conceal it, so it’s just lying at the top, glinting in the light of the desk lamp. 

It looks very sharp. 

There’s a loud, ugly noise. It doesn’t come from Bucky like he thinks at first. It’s the metal of the drawer warping under the metal of his fingers. It sounds almost like screaming. 

It’s a smaller knife than any the asset used. He used a lot of knives. Usually they were his own, blades he had trained with for hours and hours, but once or twice they wanted his eliminations to look like home invasions or domestic violence, and then he’d used kitchen knives.

This knife came from the kitchen. 

His right hand reaches out, shaking only a little. It’s not a voluntary movement; he’s like Sleeping Beauty drawn toward an enchanted spindle. He can’t help the jolt that goes through him when he touches it. It _hurts_ , even though he’s grasped the handle and not the blade. He doesn’t understand that. 

Touching knives is against the rules. Sometimes when he used to break rules his handlers would turn his own blades onto him until he learned his lesson, and then they’d make him lap up the mess. 

“Bucky?” 

There’s another wrenching metal sound as his eyes turn toward the doorway. He thinks a lot of things as he looks at the man standing there. He thinks of lying strapped to a table and seeing Steve above him. He thinks of silently crying by a bedside in Brooklyn, sure that harsh winter would be the one to finish his best friend off. He thinks of last week when Steve punched him on the shoulder and called him a jerk and didn’t even pause in fear of violent retaliation. He thinks of sitting on Steve’s lap though he didn’t quite fit, arms wrapped around him, a promise of “I’ll never let you go again” in his ear. 

But most of all, he thinks _mission._

“Bucky?” the man repeats. “Are you all right?” 

The asset is frozen. All he can move is his right hand, lifting it out of the drawer with his fingers still clenched around the knife, and he has to take his eyes from the man and stare at his arm to make his body do even that. He is not in an offensive stance and there are nearly imperceptible tremors running through him. He’ll be punished for that. He’ll be punished for so many things. 

He hears a hushed intake of breath though when he manages to look back up, the man’s face is calm and still. “You know you’re not supposed to play with knives,” he says, voice even. “Give that to Daddy, please.” 

He still can’t move. He’s disobeying. He is going to be punished and it’s going to hurt so much but if he doesn’t kill this man, it will be worse. For both of them. He’s shaking. 

“Bucky,” the man says. He doesn’t look angry, just expectant, and his voice is very soft. His hand doesn’t tremble at all when he holds it out, waiting. As though HYDRA isn’t going to tear them both to pieces. As though he has no idea of the danger they’re in. “Give it to Daddy.” 

“You’re my mission,” the asset says. He’s holding the knife so tight it hurts. Everything hurts. 

There’s a flash of something in the man’s eyes then, something that might be fear, but it’s gone so fast the asset wonders if it was even there to begin with. The man doesn’t speak, his hand outstretched as if offering himself for inspection by a strange dog. A strange dog he trusts not to bite. He is a fool to leave himself exposed and the asset should bite, _has_ to bite, has to tear him limb from limb and then beg the handlers for forgiveness, but he’s rooted to the spot. He can’t understand why the man isn’t worried. Why he acts like HYDRA isn’t going to destroy them. Maybe—

There’s a voice from overhead. **CAPTAIN ROGERS, SHALL I ALERT THE—**

“No,” the man says, loud and quick. “No, JARVIS, we’re all right, we’re fine. Bucky, you’re fine. You’re safe.” 

The knife that had been slipping from his fingers is tight in his hold again. They’re watching. They’re always watching. “I have to,” he says. It’s little more than a whisper. He’s still not moving. “Or they’ll do it to us both—it’s better this way. I can make it not hurt.” 

And the man _is_ moving, slowly walking toward him and _no_ , he can’t do that, he’ll get close enough to cut and the asset will have to cut him and _don’t_. “Bucky, you need to listen to me very carefully. You’re not with HYDRA anymore, you’re with your family now. They can never make you hurt anyone again, and they can’t hurt you now either. I won’t let them. You don’t have to be afraid.” 

He’s always afraid. He’s not sure he knows any feelings besides being afraid. The man is right in front of him and the asset lays the blade against his throat. He’s shaking; he has to steady the knife with his left hand to keep from cutting. But he’s supposed to be cutting. “Please,” the asset mutters. He doesn’t know why. 

“You’re my best friend, Buck,” the man says. “I love you. I’ll never let anyone hurt you ever again. So give me the knife, okay?” 

There’s a whimper growing in his throat. His right hand goes as numb as the left and the blade slips from his fingers. It doesn’t clatter to the floor. The man catches it. The asset watches, numb, as the knife disappears into the man’s pocket. Then his eyes are drawn back up when the man brushes the hair back from his face. 

“Do you have any other knives?” 

A nod. He’s still shaking. 

“You’re not in trouble. How many more?” 

“’Leven,” he mumbles. There’s a flush of hot through him, then cold. Steve. He almost—he could have—

Steve is drawing him close, hugging tight. “All right,” he says. He still sounds so calm. How can he sound so calm? “Where are they?” 

“Nightstand,” Bucky says. “I—I had to—I needed to protect—There are dreams that—I couldn’t…” He trails off. There isn’t any excuse. He just held a knife to Steve’s throat. No amount of nightmares and trauma justify that, not even when HYDRA’s involved. 

“I’ll protect you, Bucky.” Steve’s holding him so close that he feels the words as much as he hears them, a deep reverberation against his trembling form. “I’ll always protect you. You have nothing to be scared of here. I’m gonna put the knives back where they belong and you have to promise not to take them again, understand? It’s not safe.” 

A nod. All the adrenaline is draining out of him and Bucky feels on the verge of a collapse. He has to hold it together. He owes Steve that much. 

“But first,” Steve says, running his hand up and down Bucky’s back, “let’s go finish your fort, okay?” 

Bucky steps back, staring. 

“Want me to carry you?” Steve asks. 

“I almost slit your throat.” He wants to smack Steve and call him a stupid punk. He also wants to run far, far away where he can’t threaten anyone anymore. Maybe he’ll do both, but he doesn’t want his last interaction with Steve to be hitting. 

“Last time you tried to kill me, you shot me three times and broke my face,” Steve says. “This? Doesn’t even register. You’ll never hurt me, Bucky. I trust you.” 

“Well, you shouldn’t.” Enough is enough. His entire life since he’s come to the tower has been an overlong charade of pretending everything’s fine. But it isn’t, not even a little, and he’s sick of pretending. “I’m dangerous, Steve. And when I’m not, I’m useless. I can’t—I’m not the person you _want_. I’m not the best friend you used to have. Not anymore. And you don’t have to keep pretending you’re okay with what I am now.” 

“Hey,” Steve says. His face looks so open. How he can stand there and act like nothing’s wrong and still look so honest? “People change, Bucky. It happens. _I_ changed and you kept my stupid ass around.” 

“That’s different.” 

“Why?” 

Bucky isn’t sure where to even begin, but it doesn’t matter because Steve continues before he can answer. 

“You’re always going to be my best friend, Buck. You’re my everything. You were my best friend, you are my best friend—even when you were the Soldier. We just hadn’t realized it yet. Yeah, things are different, but so what? The _world’s_ different. Just because I’m not physically dependent on you now, it doesn’t mean I don’t need you. Who else is going to yell at me when I throw myself on grenades or jump out of a plane with no parachute?” 

Bucky just stares. 

“Need a minute to think?” Steve asks. 

“When,” says Bucky, his voice deathly still, “did you jump on a grenade?” 

The laugh Steve gives would be endearing if Bucky didn’t want to throttle him for his idiocy. “Back in training. I’ll tell you all about it. Again. The first time I told you, you almost broke your hand slapping me. But let’s talk in the living room, okay?” 

“Can you carry me?” Bucky asks, shuffling his feet a little. He’s exhausted. Almost killing Steve has that effect, and maybe he doesn’t feel so responsible and grown-up at the moment. And maybe that’s okay. “Please, Daddy?” 

Steve carries him. They talk. They build the fort and safeguard it—and each other—all night long. 

**Author's Note:**

> In the comics, Bucky is originally from Shelbyville, Indiana rather than Brooklyn.
> 
> I am unable to watch the scene on the beach of the Potomac in CA: TWS without hearing the [Part of Your World](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5Keal_UfT6o) reprise in my head. More than that, Bucky's a fan of _The Little Mermaid_ because the heroine succeeds even after her voice has been stolen from her, and because of her obviously nonhuman body part. His fascination with her fin was somewhat inspired by [a tendency among some transgender children of identifying with _The Little Mermaid_](http://www.mommyish.com/2011/06/03/do-transgender-little-girls-have-a-fascination-with-mermaids/): they can identify with Ariel's dysphoria toward her body.
> 
> The drug Bucky is taking to help with bad memories is [propranolol](http://www.webmd.com/mental-health/news/20090216/beta-blocker-may-erase-fearful-memories), a beta blocker which may help the brain to store traumatic memories the way it stores ordinary memories, so they are still accessible but less painful.
> 
> When Steve makes food, he's making _kyaraben_ , or "cute bento." That is, he's utilizing food decorating techniques that are often seen in Japanese bento boxes as a way to encourage children to eat or just to brighten their day. [Apple rabbits](http://japanesefood.about.com/od/howtocook/ss/how_to_make_apple_rabbits.htm) and [Disney princess cut-outs](http://mymealbox.com/wp-content/uploads/2010/07/090.jpg) are both features in real _kyaraben_.
> 
> Bucky has read _Where the Wild Things Are_ but has not seen the movie due to the scene of an arm being torn off. Likewise, he hasn't seen _Star Wars_ because of Luke's hand, Anakin's arms, and the carbonite freezing. He has seen _The Princess Bride_ , and out of respect for Bucky I think Tony avoided saying Inigo's [most famous line](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6JGp7Meg42U) all Halloween night.
> 
> Homemade candy corn is ridiculously delicious and [surprisingly simple](http://www.foodnetwork.com/recipes/alton-brown/candy-corn-recipe2.html) provided one has a candy thermometer and a reliable heating element.
> 
> I imagine Steve spent some of the two years between _The Avengers_ and CA: TWS too depressed to get out of bed or get dressed, hence his line to Bucky about it being more productive and happier to wear clothes. At least, that's been my own experience with depression.


End file.
